The Birth of The Smile
by Soumyaraj Bose
Summary: A tale that traces the supposed origin of one of the most fearsome fictional characters to have been ever conceived. This piece wishes to capture the message that the Joker is not one person but an idea. An idea that engulfs the most harmless of people torn apart by desolation and despair and turns them into one's worst nightmare: by putting "the smile" on their faces.


**THE BIRTH OF THE "SMILE"**

 **Prologue:**

Lights. Bright lights. And colour everywhere. All the happiness and amazement hidden from the world could be found in this one tent. Children clapped their tiny hands in joy and made every attempt to get hold of the Giant walking around, circumnavigating the arena in his mechanical gait. Adults tried hard to hide their child-like gasps as they watched the ringmaster play around with the ferocious lioness. Mothers held their little ones close as the Fire-Eater kept panting like a dragon which had just completed a marathon. People chewed away pounds of finger-nails as the knife-thrower landed every knife, within inches of the volunteer from the audience, on the flat board with precision. Acrobats swung from one corner of the tent to the other like the bell from a Grandpa clock, curling their streamlined bodies into crisply-executed somersaults.

And then the clown entered on his wobbling unicycle that ultimately kissed the edge of the little pool of water and pushed him into it. And then he emerged from it, drenched, his bizarrely coloured clothes sticking to his pot belly and his little red "nose" leaking out water onto his face. With arms outstretched and a wide smile, he emerged from the pool and foolishly tripped and fell onto the floor. He climbed upon the unicycle again, now with dumb-bells in hand. Juggling, drifting from side to side on the wobbling unicycle, he went up and down, up and down along a diameter of the arena. He juggled and juggled, throwing the dumb-bells to almost ten feet in the air. And then he failed to get hold of one. Then the other. Then the other. And in a sequence, they landed straight on his temple. His head gave a whirl and he crashed to the floor. He again got up and now, indulged himself in some hula-hooping. Spin, spin, spin and it fell onto the floor. Many failed attempts to be a "Jack of all trades" succeeded. And laughter ensued. Mad, mindless laughter that threw a few off their seats. The audience roared as the clown twisted his hand, broke his neck, bent his back and amidst all this tomfoolery, still unfailingly kept smiling.

 **Some Tears, Some Fears and "The Smile"**

The door flung open and shut. The entrant walked in slowly. There was no one at the little porch of the trailer. None but the windy spirits of the cold winter night continuously thumping at the door.

She lay there, still, clean. She lay there, peacefully, with a consuming fire burning within. The flame of life still glowed in her soul, despite the chills of the night.

He walked in, slowly, trembling, shivering from something more than the cold night air. The icicles and the breath of the wind moistened the little window pane.

One step and he paused to look at the window.

"Pick me up, please!" she said. Her arms were stretched out for him to hold and pick her up. He had been cleaning the dining table and paused to respond to her call. But she didn't wait for any. "The window. I want to draw a face in it." And she put up a pleading face. "Another smiling face?" he said, with a short grin on his face. Resting her head on the pillow, she said, "Can't wait to see your smile. I just can't wait anymore." He left his chore and went over to pick her up. She was frail, weak. Her frame was thinning day by day. Her brownish-hued eyes had started sinking in. Her lips had started whitening, turning pink from that deep-red shade that they once possessed. Her limbs dangled from his arms as he carried her to the window, like those of a damaged toy. All the while her fingers reached out to touch the surface of the window. All the while she kept looking at the cold air sweeping against the window pane. The fingers reached its destination, but slipped. A rough, larger hand held them and made them dance on the moistened window pane. First, they cut a circle. Then, they jumped from one dot to another. Then, they skid from top to bottom and then back, all below those little dots. And then, they stopped the dance. She looked up at him; her pinkish lips struggled to curl into an arc. Her weakened eyes slowly widened. When those lips lost their struggle, they weakly pouted out, "Thank you." And a smile was born.

He took another step. The pot lay on top of the stove. It still smelt of burnt soup.

"You can't cook, can you?" she said, sitting on a chair at the dining table, and she broke into shrill laughter as he gazed with disappointment at the thick, burnt fluid rumbling in the pot. "Ah! It's the third time," he grunted. "Nope, the fourth," she said and kept on laughing, tears swimming out of her eyes, as he scratched his way through the messy black hair on his head. His hands rested on his hips and he sighed with disappointment. Then, she paused her laughter and said in a theatrical tone, "Today's diner special: Burnt soup!" He let out a slow chuckle. And then she came back in a slow voice, "Come. Let's taste it. It can't be that bad after all." She picked herself up from the chair and went up to the stove. Then, by its handle she picked up the stove and took it up the dining table. He ran after her, trying to stop her, but she was adamant. She withdrew two tablespoons from the brownish-turning holder at the table and thrust one in his hand. She took a sip of the soup from hers. She whirled the soup over and over in her mouth and made her eyes roll the same way in their sockets. Then, suddenly she spat out the thick fluid into the pot. He looked at her perplexedly. She ordered him to follow suit. He took half a spoon of the soup. The charred taste made his lips pump the soup back to where it came from. And then she took another sip. And he followed. And amidst all this madness and spoonfuls of laughter, a smile was born.

His right foot stamped a sheet of paper in the way. A child had once etched two figures, a house, a tree and an overgrazed lawn on it.

Her head rested on his shoulder as both gazed at this little child's ambitious portrait. It had a little boy standing next to a figure that apparently was his mother. The little child couldn't make the boy's hand reach out to his mother's. There was a huge portion of plain white between the two. Looking at the ambitious little work of art, he broke into a silent cry. Tears raced down his cheek and he kept rubbing them.

 _He hid under the table and watched as the old haggard smashed a bottle to smithereens on the kitchen desk. Mother hurled abuse after abuse whilst pushing her body backward and backward, closer to the rack that held the knives. The haggard was creeping towards her, in drunken oblivion, holding the cracked neck in his rough hand._

 _He couldn't move. He didn't have a weapon. He tried to keep his eyes shut. But she needed him the most, now. What could he possibly do? Push him? Grab hold of his head and tear his eyes out? He could've. But he chose to keep his eyes shut. A squeal came and stretched itself to a painful moan. A thud, and then there was blood. He opened his eyes._

 _The haggard was descending on the bleeding organism to see if his reasonless anger and drunkenness had reached its ultimate aim when he heard a loud gasp coming from beneath the dinner table._

 _The little frame dragged itself from under the table and made a run towards the door. He grabbed his neck with his charred-with-time hands and looked at him with his vermilion eyes._

 _He couldn't make anything out of what left the haggard's cut lips. Mother's dying squeals had deafened him. All he could do was push him away with all his might and grab the door knob with his tiny hands._

 _He ran away. The little one became tinier, turned into a little star in the clear night sky, leaving behind a cloud of dust for the brute who wanted to satiate his cosmic thirst._

 _The haggard shifted in his place, rumbling, "….serious….serious"._

 _He could see him, the devil reduce to the size similar to the humanity he held within. He could see Mother's corpse and her hands, outstretched, disappear into the darkness. They might have been held out for him. But he couldn't care. He ran, farther and farther away, till the echoes of "Run along, little seed" were muffled by the call of the night._

"I was weak." He kept rumbling amidst the tears. His eyes were still fixed upon the sheet. They were soaked in its water. She reached out and rubbed them away. And then she stretched his lips to either side and said, "Smile, won't you?" And, amidst all the tears and gloom, amidst all the rage and regret, a smile was born.

He took a step ahead to where she lay. His hands trembled. His tears flew out from them, leaving the eye dry. He couldn't. He couldn't. Coins and the sole note rumbled in his pocket as his feet shook under the weight of the throbbing temple.

The plump old man kept counting notes at his desk. His eyes couldn't steal away from the greenish hue of the currency. It was only his voice responding to human speech that proved that his mind existed in reality. "No money this time, son. The land officer's hungry. And he's given us better land than the old swine." He remained silent. He kept gazing silently at the notes in his hand. His mind salivated at the sight of the wad of notes that the plump man flipped through with his fingers. Then he kept the bundle down and took his glasses off. "How's your girl keeping?" he asked, with a sly grin on his face. He forced a smile on his face. He remained silent. Days passed. Money flowed in and the plump old hag kept counting them. "No money this time, son. The land officer's hungry." He left the room counting the change in his pocket that the people in the crowded marketplace dropped into his hat whilst he performed random gags on the street, jostling passers-by. They didn't know him, but the plump old man did. Yet they seemed to care, while all he did was count his notes. Those unknown people never knew that they actually saved a smile from dying.

Her forehead was burning. Day by day, her body was turning into a stick. He couldn't cure her on his own. And the doctor purged him of the little bit of fortune that he had. And when the doctor got to know that she had the disease, he got the ward boys and the nurse to dispatch her from the clinic as soon as possible, so that his shop could run. Then she hung on to him for life. "I can't carry her anymore," he thought to himself, as she looked up to him with hopeful eyes. "I can't. I can't."

"Remember, son. Weak is waste. The longer it thrives, the faster the world turns into a trash can. We can't use her anymore, once that disease got hold of her. Get rid of her. Send her home. If you know what I mean." The plump man's croaky voice echoed through his ears as he inched closer and closer to her.

"Weak is waste."

"Send her home."

"Weak is waste."

"Send her home."

And then a slow, soothing voice rang, "Smile, won't you?"

She let out a loud gasp. And then, she fell silent.

"Smile, won't you?"

"Smile, won't you?"

"Smile, won't you?"

He howled like a wounded dog, but no tears came to his eyes. He could vomit, but not wail. He couldn't feel the chill of the cold winter night creeping in through the cracks in the door. His head spun, his temple throbbed but he didn't faint. He was wounded, but he couldn't feel the pain. He picked up a knife from the rack and thrust himself into the washroom.

Screams succeeded as a smile was being drawn. And as the depths of sanity were breached, the smile of insanity was born.

"Smile, won't you?"

She lay there, still, clean. She lay there, peacefully, cold as the icicles raining on the rusted roof. The fire had been doused. The flame of life had dispersed from the winds from a soul colder than the night. It was cold that night, very cold.

 **The Kind of Fear That Smiled**

The guard sat smiling outside his employer's room at the inn. Smiling from a reason unknown probably to even him. Probably his pocket was a little heavier than usual.

His employer, the circus owner, Mr. Grayson was a fine businessman. He was good with money. He was very good with people too. His employees, the performers, respected him, for he never dismissed any of them. They stayed, obeyed him. So did their families.

He was their Messiah. They were his resources.

The Goliath-like fire-eater burnt half of his face in an act. Mr. Grayson used his newly obtained hideous looks in the perfect way. He had his own personal security officer. Out of reverence for him, the guard agreed to not being paid. Grayson gave the fire-eater and his family his out-house and three squares of meals a day. He saved the money. Bought another house for himself. And a flashy-little motor car.

His cook suddenly passed away. His daughter had just turned twenty, then. She couldn't cook, nor could she perform the arts. Young, she was, and beautiful—a resource he couldn't let go of. And he had many money hungry demons to appease. They would agree. And he could save the money. And so he did, for the girl agreed for the sake of her late father, who worshipped his employer for all the food and shelter he had provided to them. His house grew. His hunger grew. He now wore gold-rimmed spectacles and had a driver to drive him in his Cadillac.

The means to satiate this hunger persisted for a couple of years, until that one day, when she started falling ill frequently. When Grayson's personal physician checked her, he said that she had "gotten the disease". With this, Mr. Grayson had lost a very valuable resource. He couldn't afford to let the girl stay in his abode. Nor could he dump the helpless girl on the streets, even if he yearned to, just get to rid of her. So, he got her dispatched to the trailers of one of his most trusted and equally distraught employees, the clown.

"The little fellow will stay shut 'cause he's gotten a girl. And the girl, well, she's at least gotten a bed to sleep in, not a sidewalk." He did care for the girl after all.

And poor Mr. Grayson had to go back to making cash payments.

"Room service!" a voice rang at the door of Mr. Grayson's room at the inn. He was startled off his seat. A wad of notes lay on the study table, scattered in an unkempt fashion. Dragging his plump frame and bulging belly, he hurtled to the table and thrust the notes into the attached drawer. Then he sped to the door. Rubbing away the sweat on his forehead, he slowly opened the door. The room service attendant stood at the door with a cloche and cutlery in his hand. He gently nodded. He seemed a simple lad. Only that his smile seemed surprising large. And his face looked familiar. Very familiar.

Mr. Grayson found himself at the table, a napkin fitted neatly round his neck and flowing down to his lap. The attendant stood in front of him, beaming, holding the cloche with his right hand. "Chef's special, sir! Pure greens!"

"Nothing better to satisfy your hunger, sir, than pure greens. Delicious, nutritious greens." For one moment, Grayson felt a wrenching pain and then a sudden paralysis. He couldn't feel his limbs. He tried to move them but they didn't respond to his call. Rather they flapped like young, misled ducklings in a pond. For once in his life, someone had disobeyed his orders.

"Oh, please don't worry, sir. We are always there to help you!" Through his blurred eyes, he saw the silhouette of the attendant lift the cloche and pick up a spoon from the cutlery set.

"My apology for the inconvenience, sir, but this dish tastes best when taken in larger amounts." The attendant appeared to pick up a large spoon, or rather something like a ladle. He took a helping of the food item and placed it in front of Grayson's pursed lips.

"Johnny Johnny! Yes, Papa!

Eating sugar? No, Papa!

Telling lies? No, Papa!

Open your mouth!"

The face became clearer. He looked unlike any normal human being. The teeth. The eyes. The smile. Grayson's eyes rolled in its sockets as the attendant thrust the ladle into his mouth.

"Ha…..Ha…Ha!" The voice.

Another helping. Then, another. "I'm sure this will satisfy the hunger that you've born all your life, sir. Another helping, sir?" The "food" had filled Grayson's mouth up till just beyond the uvula, leaving him battling for breath. The attendant seemed to withdraw a box from the pocket in the apron he wore. The sound of phosphorus-coated wood rubbing on paper filled Grayson's slumbering ears. The attendant rubbed and dropped the pieces of wood. Suddenly one lit up and he threw it at one leg of the chair. Grayson shook the chair with all his involuntary weight and finally landed on the floor. The attendant bent down to face the jostling Grayson's face. His horrid face was now clearly visible. He paused and gazed at the struggling, plump, old man. He felt the old man's breath on his chin. And then, his voice croaked, "There's no better poison than fear in a man's mind. No froth. No blood. Just pain."

Grayson struggled and struggled and struggled. His sight grew dimmer. The ears had fallen deaf. Battles became calmer and calmer. The waves of struggle had receded into the calm ocean of death. The little flame on the leg of the chair had been doused with its falling. A plump frame with a wad of currency notes in his mouth lay motionless on the floor. The drawer of the study table had been thrown wide open. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles lay crushed on the floor.

Beside it lay, a card from a deck, torn at its sides and yellowed.

And the guard sat silently outside the room, with a pocket much lighter than before. Eyes wide open and a smile carved on his burnt face.

"… **. Now onto some shocking news from the Somerset District. A middle-aged physician was found dead in his chamber by his nurse late last night. It has been revealed that the physician had been an active participant in the shady trade of smuggling anesthesia…. Nurse admits to being an accomplice….. Lesser quantity retrieved than the amount smuggled….."**

" **Reports from the autopsy reveal an excessive concentration of anesthesia in the blood…. Suspicions surround the fact that the anesthesia might have been ingested by the victim… Much lesser quantity found than amount missing….."**

" **A man who claims responsibility for the killing of the doctor, and now, for the fresh act of the murder of the owner of a travelling circus, gives himself up…."**

 **Through the Child's Eyes**

" _A smile is like the wealth you hold. The one that makes your trousers sag. The one on your necks, in your hands, on your wrists. You wear wealth like the mask you wear every day. But you can't get a job that will earn you a smile. You can't. Look at me. Hey, I'm smiling. I used to a few days ago too. But then I got hurt. Badly hurt. The wound was deep. It hurt so much that I couldn't cry. It was beyond tears, to be honest. So, I laughed. I smiled. I don't wear a mask anymore. I smile naturally. All the time, yes. Do you want to smile and laugh all your miserable lives? You won't have to wear any more of the masks, I assure you. I can help you. That's my job, isn't it? To bring a smile to your face?"_

Little Jim hid his face in his father's overcoat. His moonlight grey eyes captured images that were beyond his comprehension, beyond his imagination. The circus was meant to be what his father read to him in those colourful little story books. People flying about on bars, balancing themselves on a single length of rope. The lion roaring, the elephant thumping and pumping, gaudily dressed for just that act. The juggler threw things up miles in the air. He couldn't see them, but they finally landed on his hand and he made them continue revolving around their "sun". Lights, music, colour and yes, of course, the silly, old lovable clown.

But it wasn't as his father had read out to him. The chandeliers had been torn down. Light came from a portion of the tent set on fire. A tirade of black, orange and vermilion had filled the scene. The sound of panic and the yellow-teeth flashing clown's croaking voice through the loudspeaker became the music of the hour.

"He doesn't make me smile anymore," Jim said in a tearful voice, gripping his father's overcoat tightly. "Do not panic. Do not be afraid. It's a simple job you have to do. Throw in whatever you own. And we will let you go. But you've got to be honest. And your honesty shall be rewarded. Your debts shall be paid! You will get a chance to live to smile an honest smile." The voice croaked through the loudspeaker and echoed about the tent. "We are good people, son. Good happens to those who are good," Jim's father chanted reassurance after reassurance to calm his little son who trembled with fear of something that was beyond his age and thinking.

The entire audience had been crammed into one big mass. Scarred and tattooed Goliaths wearing orange pushed the people around, collecting them in a single congregation. Those who disobeyed them, who saw them in the eye, had to face the drilling of their knives. People wearing clown masks went around different parts of the arena holding gunny bags. A rain of valuables and simple possessions had started. People stripped their bodies of their necklaces, wrist watches, wedding rings and many other valuables. Many men and even few women took off their silk and satin garments and threw with their other possessions. Children cried as even their little toys were chucked into the mound forming in the arena. The tent floor was littered with currency notes.

"BANG!" a masked aide was shot. People spotted the killer. They started closing upon him. "Listen to me! Please! Please!" Few men snatched his revolver and dismantled it. A few started kicking and punching him. "You'll get us killed! You son of a…!" Blood splattered across as the consequent jostling and pushing raised a stampede. The orange-coated Goliaths had stepped aside. The "harmless" audience didn't need them to cause any more harm.

Little Jim held on to his father as he made way through the chaos. His father picked him up and rested him on his shoulder. As Jim seated himself, he saw the Goliaths and the aides spilling gallons of liquid about the arena. As chaos continued with man beating man, voyeurs making the last attempts and children getting crushed beneath adult feet, the arena with all watches, rings and rich garments burned like a dead giant's pyre. And through the gushing flames, the little Jim saw the clown looking at him. The clown was smiling his deathly yellowish smile. He looked even worse than the wolf that chased Little Red Riding Hood or even Boogeyman beneath the bed.

Jim's father, holding on to his son, broke free from the chaos. They sped and sped to get through what seemed to be the only gaping hole in the tent. Jim looked back. The aides were battling the fire now. The Goliaths had started fighting amongst themselves.

The duo made it out into the fresh air with fire burns and charred garments. Then, suddenly they collided with a gaunt silhouette.

"Hello, Mr. Land Officer!"

The clown drove a knife through the father's heart. He twisted it, and kept pushing it further. Jim dropped from his shoulder and landed on the rocky floor.

"You shall not escape by getting your debts paid, Mr. Land Officer. The scum in the tent have. I won't go and kill them. I have my own debts to pay. Sadly, there's no one there to help me. And you know I'm a coward. I can't drive this knife into my own belly. It hurts, you know."

The frame that was Jim's father coughed and let out a final gasp. The firm shoulder that was little Jim's home had, in moments, crashed to the ground. Jim sat there teary eyed. He didn't sob or wail loudly. He sat there quietly and gazed at the motionless lump of flesh.

The clown looked down at him and asked in a rather calm voice, "Do you play cards, kid?" Jim's eyes meet the cat-like pair of the clown. The clown pulled out a card from his pocket and placed it on his little hand.

"WHY SO SERIOUS?" The clown roared grabbing him by the chin with one hand and gripping the blood-coated knife in the other.

Jim suppressed a gasp. He was scared to even let out a breath. He hid his eyes from the devil looking down upon him. Until, the greenish eyes of the devil curled into a devilish smile and he croaked, "Smile, won't you?"

The moonlight grey eyes quivered, shifting its glance from the corpse to the devilish face that glared at him. He lifted himself up, beating the dust around and set off on a run to a place that, he hoped, would take him home. Any place that he could call home. And as he ran farther and farther, the devil reduced to the size of a star in the sky, croaking, "Run along, little seed!"

 **Epilogue:**

Lieutenant Gordon turned the packet over and over again. His moonlight grey eyes scanned the Joker card placed in the little packet. A few distant voices echoed in his ears. He wiped sweat off his brow and kept gazing at the card.

"….Take this guy. Armed robbery, double homicide, taste for the theatrical,…. Leaves a calling card." Gordon handed the card to a silhouette. A hoarse voice came, "I'll look into it."

Gordon looked on eagerly. There was hope. Hope for some questions to be answered. This very hope drew a smile across his face. A wide smile. The night was very cold. But hope had given some warmth to Lieutenant Jim Gordon.

The same warmth in which Bruce Wayne thrived that night, amidst his orgasm feasts near the fireplace. Day had arrived soon. But the warmth remained.

His head soaked in that warmth. But he hoped for something else. "Gotham needs a reason to smile." He grinned from eye to eye. A car pulled over near the walk. And he carried his wide frame forward, pulling a mask over his face. Like everyone does, everyday. And the car with its latest occupant set off to a place that no one was supposed to know.

 **[The characters of The Joker and Jim Gordon are a creation of Jerry Robinson, Bob Kane and Bill Finger and are a property of DC Comics.**

 **The dialogue "WHY SO SERIOUS?" has been written by Jonathan and Christopher Nolan and is a part of the latter's motion picture, "The Dark Knight", Warner Bros. Pictures 2008.**

 **The dialogues mentioned in the epilogue have been written by Jonathan and Christopher Nolan and are a part of the latter's motion picture, "Batman Begins", Warner Bros. Pictures, 2006.]**


End file.
